


Madness at the Michel Delving Mathom-house

by JaneSpeedwell



Series: Tales from the Ivory Tower [3]
Category: The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Gen, Museums, One Shot, The Shire, sneaky legal manoeuvring, weapons are not toys
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-27
Updated: 2018-07-27
Packaged: 2019-06-09 20:32:16
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,314
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15275622
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JaneSpeedwell/pseuds/JaneSpeedwell
Summary: Fosco Mugwort, curator of the Mathom-house at Michel Delving, is expecting a quiet day as usual. But his comfortable routine is interrupted by an irate Lobelia Sackville-Baggins, and a young Merry and Pippin who are looking for ways to liven up their play-fighting.





	Madness at the Michel Delving Mathom-house

All hobbit holes are comfortable affairs, and every hobbit thinks their hole is the nicest for miles around. But Fosco Mugwort had an additional reason to be proud of his hole, which was part of the Mathom-house in Michel Delving. For as well as containing a snug set of rooms with windows looking out onto the White Downs, the Mathom-house was special because it held the whole history of the Shire in its four walls.

Not many hobbits are interested in history - other than their family history, of course, for which they have a passion. Even Fosco had to admit that visitor numbers to the Mathom-house had never been high. Many of the exhibits were gathering dust, and every couple of years the Mayor would threaten to cut funds to the museum, grumbling that the money could be better spent elsewhere than on a set of mouldering artefacts and books.

Nonetheless, the Mathom-house was still around after hundreds of years, and Fosco was proud to be its curator. He’d displayed an early interest in history, which his parents had nurtured by getting a tutor to teach him how to read, and looking on indulgently as Fosco filled up the Mugwort smial with books on all sorts of subjects.  


‘Museum curator’ was an unusual choice of career for a hobbit, given that there was only ever one position in the whole Shire, but Fosco was happy among his beloved exhibits and dusty scrolls, even if his neighbours thought him an incurable eccentric.

One blustery, rainy November morning, Fosco was glad to be in his sitting room, which adjoined the main museum space, sipping a cup of tea in front of the fire. He could hear the rain beating on the windows, and sighed in satisfaction as he opened a favourite book on Shire botany. He anticipated another quiet day with little to disturb his reading.

That pleasurable anticipation was, however, cut short when Fosco heard a determined ringing of the doorbell, followed by some incomprehensible shouting.  


Setting his tea carefully aside, Fosco went to open the door to see who was making such a racket.

All at once a cloaked figure marched into the room, shaking itself and spraying droplets all around it. The rain was slanting through the door, and Fosco shut it quickly, turning to the stranger.

‘Excuse me!’, he cried. ‘I beg you won’t shake yourself dry like that; you’ll get all the exhibits wet’.

The figure dramatically cast off its cloak, and Fosco saw with a sinking heart that it was none other than Lobelia Sackville-Baggins, who proceeded to scold him with great energy.

‘You insolent rascal, Mugwort! You’re worried about your precious exhibits getting a little wet, when I was standing outside in the rain, getting near drownded, ringing the bell for all I was worth? And you in here, nice and cosy drinking tea, I see. We elderly hobbits just don’t get the respect we deserve nowadays. When I was young, things were very different indeed, oh yes they were’.

Fosco took the hint, and bustled off to stoke up the fire and boil a fresh pot of tea for Lobelia.

Five minutes later, both were seated in easy chairs in front of the fire, and Fosco rearranged his features into what ought to pass for a polite expression. ‘Well, Mrs Sackville-Baggins, how might I help you today? What brings you to the Mathom-house?’

Lobelia cast suspicious glances around her before answering in a low voice, ‘well, see here, it’s this legal business with Bag End that’s been taking up all my time. You’ve heard, I suppose, that old Bilbo Baggins is taking in some cousin from Brandy Hall and making him his heir and all?’

Fosco hadn’t in fact heard, but strove for a neutral expression as he answered, ‘why no, I’d no idea. So Bilbo finally found an heir? Ha, ha, that’s quite something. I thought he’d never get round to it’.

‘It’s no laughing matter, Fosco Mugwort! That’s my inheritance I’m being cheated out of, and my poor dear son’s inheritance, too. Bilbo has seen fit not to have any children, so Bag End and everything in it is rightfully mine and my son’s. He’s cheating me on purpose, that’s what, and I bet he’s sitting in his big fancy smial laughing at me as we speak!’

‘Well, Mrs Sackville-Baggins, I’m very sorry that you should feel cheated of your inheritance. But where do I come into this?’

Lobelia’s expression turned shrewd. ‘You have legal records and suchlike in the Mathom-house, don’t you?’

‘Yes indeed’, replied Fosco with an air of satisfaction. ‘I’ve quite a store of parchments dating back almost to the foundation of the Shire, which –’

‘So you probably have the title deeds for Bag End, what with it being such a sizeable property and all?’ 

Fosco hesitated before answering. He was beginning to see what Lobelia was driving at, and he wasn’t sure he liked it. ‘Quite possibly, though I’m afraid I can’t promise anything. You must understand that archival research is a most demanding job, and specific records can be hard to track down’.

‘Well, I need to get a look at those documents’, huffed Lobelia. ‘I’m as sure as the day is long that Bilbo is cheating me, and that if I could take a look at Bag End’s title deeds, they would support me and my son in our rightful claim against that upstart cousin, who’s only half a Baggins as it is. There must be something in there about our right of inheritance’.

Fosco felt uneasy about giving Lobelia access to any documents, as she was hoping to use them for personal gain as opposed to academic research. Then again, wasn’t it part of his job as Mathom-house curator to allow her, or any hobbit, to see historic records? Ultimately, Fosco knew he was going to say ‘yes’ even as he pondered the ethics of the situation. This was due to a sudden vision of Lobelia marching up to the Mayor and demanding Fosco’s dismissal. Fosco shuddered at the prospect, and decided to take the easiest way out.

Clearing his throat, Fosco said a little pompously, ‘Mrs Sackville-Baggins, as curator of the Mathom-house, I feel it my solemn duty to accede to your request. That is, yes. I’ll have a look in the legal archives and see if I can find the Bag End title deeds. Solely for the purpose of academic research, of course. I shall send you a letter if I find anything; how does that sound?’

Lobelia was triumphant. ‘Oh, that sounds most sensible, Mr Mugwort, most sensible indeed. I knew I could count on you to help me fight Bilbo, the odious man. I shall look forward to hearing from you’.

And with that, Lobelia rose out of the chair and, donning her cloak, swept majestically out of the museum.

‘Haven’t you ever heard of umbrellas, you old bat?’ Fosco called after her – but not until she was out of earshot, of course.

Fosco had had some previous acquaintance with Bilbo Baggins, and he’d always thought that Bilbo seemed a decent sort. Fosco was hardly one to hold it against Bilbo that he also had a reputation as an eccentric. He was fairly sure, too, that the selection of a new heir for Bag End would be legally above board, and combined with a personal dislike of Lobelia, Fosco didn’t especially feel like doing the woman’s dirty work for her. 

But as the spectre of Lobelia’s wrath loomed large in his mind, Fosco reluctantly started sifting through the Shire’s legal records, which were kept in the Mathom-house storeroom. Luckily for Fosco, there weren’t really too many of them, since hobbit society isn’t especially literate; it was only the really big and expensive properties, like Bag End, which could boast their own written documents.

* * *

Some hours later, after a tasty luncheon of bread, cheese and pigeon pie, Fosco sat back in his armchair with the book on botany. He’d found the Bag End title deeds, and it looked like Lobelia wouldn’t have a leg to stand on, legally, if she opposed the transfer of inheritance. There were no covenants against the property’s owners making cousins into heirs. He’d written a letter to say as much, which he was not looking forward to delivering to Lobelia.

No sooner had he started reading the book’s entry on mugwort (he always began with that section, out of family pride), than the door crashed open and two hobbits tumbled inside. Shaking themselves like wet dogs - Fosco was too shocked to tell them off - they hallooed to the curator, greeting him rather disrespectfully with ‘Fosco, old chap!’

He didn’t recognise the two young hobbits, but he knew their type: they were mischief-makers. He’d have to keep an eye on them, to be sure. They introduced themselves as Meriadoc Brandybuck of Brandy Hall, and Peregrin Took (‘but you can call me Pippin!’).

‘Mr Mugwort’, began Meriadoc. ‘We’re extremely interested, for the purposes of research only, in any weapons you might have. Anything at all – slingshots, clubs, bows and arrows…’

‘Ah’, replied Fosco, rubbing his hands together in professional enthusiasm. ‘Yes, in fact one of our prize exhibits is the very club with which Brandobras Took-’

‘You mean THE Brandobras Took? The Bullroarer?’ interrupted Pippin.

‘Yes, although that is only a common and, may I say, rather vulgar name for the individual concerned. Anyway as I was saying, we have the very club with which Brandobras Took lopped off the head of the goblin king Golfimbul at the Battle of Greenfields. You youngsters may or may not know that Brandobras Took, in doing so, invented the game of golf, which has since become one of the Shire’s-’

‘Yes, yes, but can we see the club? Please?’ asked Pippin, his eyes wide and shining.

Fosco hesitated. Normally it was against Mathom-house policies (which he had himself written) to allow very old objects to be handled, let alone by boisterous young hobbits. But so seldom did visitors to the Mathom-house display genuine enthusiasm for an artefact, that Fosco decided to waive the rules in this instance.

He reverently lifted Brandobras’ club out of its glass case and handed it to Meriadoc, who seemed the more sensible of the pair. ‘Now, you may handle this carefully, but only for a few minutes, mind; it’s in a delicate condition. I’m going to get some scones and tea which you may share if you are very good. Do, if you please, stay where you are’.

In a fit of good humour, Fosco decided not only to give the young hobbits scones and tea, but double helpings of cream and jam, since they were such enthusiastic budding historians. He paused while buttering the scones, however, upon hearing movement and furious whispering coming from the neighbouring room. Far too much movement, considering the hobbits were supposed to stay where they were.

Suddenly suspicious, Fosco rushed out into the museum’s main room, knocking the whole tea set onto the floor as he did so. And what should he see, but Meriadoc and Pippin backing out of the open front door as quickly as possible, awkwardly carrying the huge club between them!

‘Oi!’ bellowed Fosco. ‘You stop right there! That’s Mathom-house property you’ve got there, and you’re stealing it! I shall have to call the Shirriffs if you don’t give that club back right this instant!’

The young hobbits turned to each other, mouths dropping open in identical ‘O’s. 

‘The Shirriffs’? cried Pippin, lower lip trembling. ‘Oh no, please Mr Mugwort, don’t call the Shirriffs! We’ll give you the club and we’ll never come back again to trouble you, if you only don’t call the Shirriffs’! 

‘My dad would pitch a fit and ground me for a year if he were to hear of it’, added Meriadoc, looking distinctly green-faced at the prospect.

Hearing their piteous entreaties, and seeing the fear in their young faces, Fosco’s lips twitched in a smile almost before he could stop it. Quickly setting his face in a frown, he told them that this time he would overlook their attempted theft of a very old and valuable piece of Shire history. But in return for not calling the Shirriffs, Fosco expected them to run a special errand on his behalf.

‘Oh yes, anything, Sir, Mr Mugwort!’ exclaimed Pippin.

‘Well, here it is then’. In tones of great solemnity, Fosco delivered his verdict. ‘You two rascals are to deliver a letter to Mrs Lobelia Sackville-Baggins. You must see it reaches her personally, and you are to wait while she reads it, so you can take back an answer to me’.

‘That doesn’t sound so very bad. So we’re just delivering a letter?’ asked Meriadoc, a frown crossing his face.

‘Quite right. You are simply to deliver this letter. Now, be off with the pair of you! When you want to play at fighting again, make your own clubs out of branches, and don’t come thieving at the Mathom-house!’

Relieved, Meriadoc and Pippin scampered away, thinking they’d got off lightly. Fosco, however, knew better. For the letter contained a statement to the effect that having read the title deeds to Bag End, it was clear that Bilbo had every right to pass on the property to whomsoever he chose. 

Oh yes, he did not envy the young hobbits standing in the vicinity of Lobelia as she read that her branch of the family was truly disinherited! That would be a far more terrifying lesson for them than anything he could have come up with.

And now, quite unable to cope with any more visitors, Fosco stuck a ‘Closed’ sign on the Mathom-house door, and settled down once more to his book on botany. He wasn’t going to open the door again that day if the Mayor himself came knocking.


End file.
